Bee Tree Farm

Even though the purchase isn’t complete, we’ve already named her Martha. We’ve located a friend with a truck strong enough to haul her. Jer’s busy researching generators, and I am finally browsing the Habitat for Humanity Re-store for a concrete purpose: laminate trailer flooring. Normally I wander the aisles in search of old house part treasures that a) aren’t needed b) are totally useless.

Things are rolling along.

But no permanent moves will happen yet. For now, Martha is for weekends, maybe even a weeknight here and there. When (if if IF) construction begins the plan is to sort through our obnoxious piles of stuff that fill this house and move into the trailer with only a few boxes of belongings. The prospect of a move into such cramped quarters has already caused me to look around the current house and give most of our things the stink eye. Each item must now prove its value and if it cannot, into a storage unit, recycling bin, or donation pile it must go. If you know me, then you know I will fail miserably at this futile exercise since I’m a hoarder by nature. And also since, for me, even the process of scrambling eggs requires pans, spatulas, whisks, jars, a knife, several plates, a microwave, an oven, a cheese grater, and a chicken. It’s just really, really difficult for me to keep it simple.

True to form, I’m already panicked about my life in less than 250 sq. ft. I’ve pondered the living quarters, the tiny bathroom, the stove size, lack of dishwasher, the very small bathroom, twin sized beds, lack of cabinetry, and the truly tiny bathroom. Even though Martha finally (hallelujah) represents progress, I’ve gone ahead and started freaking out about the reality of living in her for a period of time. That sounds about right, doesn’t it? Complain about our stagnant situation and then immediately worry when we forge ahead. Yep.

From here on out, I am determined to overcome my paralyzing fear of small spaces, of choosing which precious pot and pan (singular) will live with me in the trailer, how many pairs of underwear can fit in my drawer (singular), and deciding who gets dibs on the bathroom (singular) in the morning. I will keep my eye on the prize and I will hum Survivor’s classic ballad whenever regret washes over me. Eye of the Tiger, baby. Jenna vs. Martha. Let’s do this.